


Cathedral

by nicholese



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Religious overtones, angst happened even though i'm just a simple smut peddler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 17:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12151692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicholese/pseuds/nicholese
Summary: In some ways, Credence reflected, craven depravity felt like a spiritual return to church.





	Cathedral

**Author's Note:**

> Why would Credence be horrified by his monstrous nature, or worse, need lots of hugs and sappy stuff? I don't think of him as a passive abuse victim after realizing what he can do, so this is my response to the Woobification of this bad boy.

In some ways, Credence reflected, craven depravity felt like a spiritual return to the church, base worship of the most sinful kind. The hush that descended upon them when Mr Graves undressed him was exactly the one that faithful congregation quiet into when their preacher assumes position at the pulpit, heavy jowls trembling. 

 

Except, instead of listening to tales of brimstone and hellfire, they were fornicating. Mr Graves had sneered when he had used that word and explained its meaning. 

 

"What a silly euphemism."

 

He bent his head and continued, and Credence was far too gone to defend his former way of life, digging his nails down Mr Graves' back as he engaged in something too perverted to look at for long. 

 

The _other man_ had called him a miracle, but it was this Mr Graves who treated him like one. He touched Credence reverently, almost fearfully, as if afraid that he would disappear any moment. Or, that his body were something worth treasuring. Frankly speaking, Credence could never glimpse anything special in his reflection. In rain puddles that children jumped into, darkened windowpanes of empty houses, or the vanities in opulent hotel rooms that Mr Graves sometimes brought him to, the same face stared back at him: a perfectly ordinary one edged with a too sharp jaw, like God's hand had slipped while forming him.

 

Once, in the mirror of Mr Graves' own apartment, he had looked like a stranger, seconds after releasing into another man. It was meant to be a lesson, a preparation of sorts for Mr Graves to show him how he wished to be pleased. Yet, many tries later, Mr Graves had not succeeded. Credence wondered when Mr Graves would be honest and simply admit that he enjoyed being fucked. It was obvious, from the incoherence that overtook him whenever Credence nudged that spot deep inside, hidden like the soft pink insides of clams. Surely, one impostor later, they are past any kind of pretense.  

 

In his darker moments, he suspected Graves of using him by allowing Credence to use him- his hands and mouth. Even his ass. Perhaps finding a kind of refinement in debasing himself, allowing Credence to scrape the very bottom. 

 

Still, Credence found himself quite willing to grant Mr Graves permission to seek this brand of salvation. He could not deny the enjoyment he derived from watching Mr Graves kneeling between his legs, in raptures - like a foolish woman receiving communion. Frankly speaking, he relished seeing the  proud man pleasuring him with a nearly religious fervor more than the stimulation itself, and it was unbearably gratifying to see Mr Graves lick his lips, afterwards. The way Mr Graves swore while riding him was like a nonsensical litany that Credence liked, too, reducing him to such crude forms of expression. It reminded him of the curse that sprang to his lips like a Hail Mary when Credence first kissed him, catching sight of Mr Graves and taking the opportunity. 

 

"Do I know you," Mr Graves had barked, twisting Credence's arm around rather painfully. With his other hand, Mr Graves aimed a wand at his throat. 

 

"You left me." Credence had felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, washing away the relief. He had been looking for three weeks, living under a bridge in Queens. A shabby tenement was standing where the Second Salem church had been, and the chill that seeped into him when a dirty old man told him that it had never existed still lingered. Credence had been frantic, and foolish. When the distinctly handsome outfit had come into view he did not hesitate. 

 

"What?" Mr Graves' grip tightened, and he searched Credence's face in confusion, heavy brows drawing together. Suddenly, he let go. 

 

"You're the boy," he muttered in bewilderment. "You're the Obscurial that destroyed half the city."

 

"It wasn't my fault!" Credence said heatedly. "Don't pretend. You betrayed me."

 

The anger had evaporated from Mr Graves' eyes, leaving behind only a horrible pity. He averted his gaze, looking a little over Credence's shoulder. 

 

"I'm sorry for what happened," the man said quietly. "But I can explain."

 

Over weak tea from a sandwich shop, the whole story emerged, ugly and crushing: Credence had been lied to the whole time, even about Mr Graves. He had happily been doing the bidding of a evil man who was bent on enslaving the whole of humanity- the non-magical part, at least. Credence was left feeling sick and acutely embarrassed that he had in fact launched himself at a complete stranger.

 

"I'm not sure," he had admitted when Mr Graves - the real one - asked him why. "Actually. I was thinking of hitting you but. I was afraid of not having another chance." 

 

"Do you love him," Mr Graves had asked bluntly. Credence blew at his tea, ashamed. 

 

"I am - was very grateful to him. All things considered, he gave me hope."  

 

Mr Graves had chuckled darkly at that, sounding so much like him that something in Credence's heart painfully spasmed. When he surged forward to kiss Mr Graves, again, the wizard did not stop him. 

 

"Why don't you let me try," he breathed against Credence's cheek. "This time." 

 

And so it had begun, their strangely familiar yet absurdly new association, one that progressed rapidly with the shared experience of having their lives ruined by Grindelwald. The mutual understanding was made precious by its scarcity, how nobody else could be reached out to in the dark, because they too had the same scars on their souls, the jagged edges somehow fitting. If they healed by pressing onto the wounds with almost wicked glee, Credence thought that it was only their own business. The harsh slide of skin on skin, sometimes made slippery by blood, made up for the violence Grindelwald deserved, sort of. Graves was filled with the same bitter resentment that welled up in him, dark and writhing, like an Obscurus of his own.

 

Credence kept quiet about it, but it was interesting to see how the two Mr Graves he had known were so similar, at least in certain respects. A presence of being that made their orders followed, and a quick temper that flared when they were not. The way they allowed intense emotion to consume themselves, utterly convinced: the earlier one in his purpose, and the original in his steadfast resolution to blame himself for enabling it. Credence was fascinated by both, attracted to this Mr Graves' pain like a leech to bad blood, gorging himself to pleasant satiation. He tried to rein himself in, but years of suppression had built up such a pressure that he felt no different from a dam that had burst, relentless. Mr Graves stood no more chance than one lone man against the force of a tidal wave. He did the only sane thing, in that case, embracing it with suicidal bliss. 

 

"I deserved it," Mr Graves would choke, nearly weeping and Credence cut neat scratches onto his spine while they were fucking, hissing approvingly. Notching up lines like he was keeping count of the sins he were absolving, the burdens Mr Graves insisted on carrying tumbling off, down down down. _Like the pilgrim's progress_ , thought Credence rather ludicrously. He felt dizzy and light-headed, as if his body were far removed, balls deep in the warm flesh of another. 

 

Funnily enough, Tina had felt the need to warn him. She appeared with an envelope in hand, smack in the middle of the hallway of Mr Graves' house as Credence was walking to the bathroom. He controlled his surprise, meeting her shocked gaze without flinching. 

 

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. 

 

"The same could be asked of you," Credence replied evenly. He was not surprised that Mr Graves neglected to disclose the fact that they were - intimate. That would be bad publicity, especially so soon after being reinstated. Graves burned with the unfairness of it all, unofficially bearing the consequences for acts committed by evil wearing his skin, and Credence sunned himself in the heat, cat-like. Mr Graves got a wonderfully mad look in his eyes while ranting, which was accentuated by drink, and his carefully measured speech slipped into the cadence of mean Brooklyn streets. The darkness in Credence loved listening to such naked hurt, the hate, curling appreciatively as he sat by Mr Graves' feet, enchanted. Credence had long ago grown tired of the words, as Mr Graves trotted out all his woes repeatedly, but the feeling behind remained the same, the heady essence of vitriol making him tingle all over. It was the same sermon every time. Mr Graves would bemoan the situation, cursing his colleagues for being effectively blind and deaf to anything amiss. Moving on to Grindelwald himself though scrupulously avoiding any mentions of the name, Mr Graves complained about the damage that he had wrought, firing seemingly at whim and ordering executions with even less care. 

 

"Could you imagine me doing this," he would sigh, and Credence mouthed silently along. Thirty-six criminals sentenced to death, the punishment far outweighing their crimes by ridiculous margins. One of them a girl, eight-years-old who had ardently resisted giving up a healing potion she had stolen, for her dumb brother. He imagined having the kind of leeway that allowed a man to command this, with absolutely no questioning, and a faint smile quirked his lips. 

 

Tina was still gaping at him, though she did recover faster than expected, clearing her throat. 

 

"I have urgent matters to tell him," she said defensively. A speculative look came into her eyes as she looked him over, noting his rumpled pyjamas and mussed hair. The marks on his neck. He suddenly felt awfully exposed. The Obscurus within stirred impatiently, but he smacked it down without much difficulty. Mr Graves would hate it if Credence destroyed his lovely house. Besides, the news Tina was bearing had to be quite important, since somebody had to personally deliver it. 

 

"Percival is still sleeping," he bit out, noticing with vicious delight the disturbed awareness that came over her face with the use of her superior's first name. "I would be happy to pass that to him, Miss Goldstein." 

 

"Okay," she agreed slowly, handing the heavy envelope over. It was embossed with an intricate, curling seal. Tina gripped her wand, probably about to disappear again, but she looked at him once more, albeit reluctantly. 

 

"You best be careful with Mr Graves," she finally said. Credence could not discern if the ambiguity was deliberate. All the same, he had nodded curtly. _I don't see why I have to_ , he left unsaid. 

 

The intangible bond that stretched between Mr Graves and him was nothing so shallow as romance, or crude as lust. They were somehow connected, carnally or otherwise: the abrasive rub of personality proven wrong by an odd compatibility, weird as finding a pearl in the belly of a beast and just as welcome. The exquisite pain Graves carried needed to be soothed by more, really. If Credence savoured it, where was the harm in that?

 

Riding Mr Graves like a show pony, Credence felt a dark thrill of satisfaction rush through him as he gazed at the Director's sweaty, dazed face. With the second-most influential wizard in America literally beneath him, and also armed with the Obscurus, Credence was nearly giddy with excitement about the paths he could take. He had come back from the dead. He had power and might, enough to go after those who had prevented him from discovering it in the first place, before his abilities were warped into a nightmarish force of nature. He was a god. Or, perhaps some vengeful demon clawed out of Hell, spitting fire and bringing war. 

 

In the darkened room the whites of his eyes shone inhumanly. 

 

Mr Graves came. Credence barely noticed.

 

"Feeling good?" Mr Graves' voice was addled. The fool.

 

"Yes," Credence replied, grinning. Sweat ran down his back, mingling with the faint smoke that rose off his pale skin. 

 

"That was great." 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Apparently this fandom is dying. 
> 
> Bonus points if you can spot the pun.


End file.
